


this sunless distance

by bummerang



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Jon goes for an unwanted walk and doesn't appreciate the feelings on top of the exercise, M/M, post-159, pre-most of 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bummerang/pseuds/bummerang
Summary: There was relief, and terror that this could be taken away at any moment, but—there was also justthismoment. Warmth, and his hand in Martin’s hair, and the muted sound of the eternal sea.(Jon looks for Martin again.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	this sunless distance

**Author's Note:**

> 159/160 are completely acceptable but also ow

_Archivist: The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?_

_Martin: You know, I think it always did._

**MAG 154 - Bloody Mary**

—

—

— 

“Martin!”

His throat ached, though with more than just strain. He thought it’d be easier once they left. It did seem like it would be, on the train, and then over the Scottish hills to Daisy’s safehouse. In hindsight, he could see how he’d allowed the tentative hope generated by their escape to get the better of him. He was far from optimistic, but hope was addicting. Once it had its claws around your heart, it was hard to say no, because deep beneath the cynicism there was a part of you that painfully wanted for everything to turn out all right. That believed it would, even if it was just the tiniest bit.

But not much had been easy in a very long time, and more and more, he felt he should remember that.

 _Perhaps I have never even seen a beach_ , Annabelle Crane had written, spoken through him, and in this place, Jon felt almost as if he may not have either. He’d walked the not-quite-shore of The Lonely for what felt like hours without any sign or sound of Martin, and he was beginning to regret having killed Peter Lukas. In a way—an annoying, dangerous, migraine-inducing sort of way—Peter Lukas had been a relatively fixed point. Even when Jon couldn’t pinpoint his location initially, he knew the general area of foggy nowhere Lukas had chosen as his hiding spot. Not that knowing where Lukas was had helped Jon find his way around any better. But it was nice to have something with which he could judge distance, even a supernatural, not-really-there distance.

Part of the problem was that the picture of the place wasn’t entirely clear in Jon’s head. He couldn’t _see_ it well. Too much white noise and grey sand and the strange, vividly clear blue ocean despite the heavily condensed static that passed for a cloudy sky. A teasing splash of colour to emphasize the open, encompassing dullness of the rest of the world. It seemed the domain of The Forsaken wasn’t exactly nowhere and not really anywhere, not quite the way The Buried could be so far down that direction became meaningless.

He still knew the way home. Somehow. But without a marker, it was easier not to think about it too hard. Leave the thought a guiding shimmer in the distance.

The beach was tranquil, which was likely the most insidious thing about it. Everything was soft and hazy and it promised to stay that way. Unlike most, it could probably keep that promise. The peace was tempting. No more running, no more hiding. He wouldn’t have to worry about Elias or Julia Montauk or—or _anything_ —catching up to him. There was just the beach, and the ocean, and all he’d have to do was stay.

Yes. Jon could see the appeal.

He tore his gaze from the darkened horizon and kept moving.

-

In hindsight, though he’d resented it on principle, it was probably a legitimate question.

What _was_ he seeking? What was the image he had created of Martin?

Martin was brave. Resilient. Unexpectedly resourceful. Unexpectedly many, many things. It scared Jon that Martin would risk so much, but—that was fair, wasn’t it? Jon would risk more.

But those were Big Things. Important, but they left little gaps in the picture for all the places they couldn’t fit. They were things that Jon probably would have come to see even if they had never grown close.

But he also knew that Martin took three sugars and a hefty amount of cream in his coffee, and tended to tap his pen against his cheek when he was going over a document, and had a fondness for things a little bit lost or stuck between times. He wrote poetry. He was awful with checkers and surprisingly devious at chess. He liked sushi though didn’t care for yellowtail, kept a box of snacks in the second drawer of his desk to offer on late nights, and he made the best tea in the world. It didn’t remind Jon of anything. Wasn’t like home or sunrises or afternoons with a book. It was just tea, made in the office kitchen by Martin, because Martin cared.

When Martin spoke, he liked to gesture, and sometimes it was hazardous and sometimes it was captivating, but mostly it scared Jon because he’d never expected to find it endearing.

Lukas had been right. For the most part, they had worked, and bickered, and fled from monster to monster. But they’d also taken small moments in between, and made time.

It was an incomplete image, but if he could—if he could find Martin—then he wanted to spend as much time as he could piecing it, little by little. Together.

He picked up his pace. Let the feel of the sand giving slightly beneath his feet ground him. He thought of...tea. Occasionally brought into his office without his consent. The way Martin had barged into the Archives after thirteen days of being terrorized by Jane Prentiss. His incredulous laughter when Jon had just about asked if he was a ghost.

“Martin.”

He remembered the tapes that Martin had piled onto the coffin.

“Martin. Martin!”

_Hopefully, by the time you get these tapes I’ll have something more concrete for you. Good luck, Jon. I—stay safe._

There was a familiar feeling on the back of his neck. Tingly, like static electricity. It wasn’t as oppressive as it usually was when he was around something that had been touched by an Entity. It seemed like it only wanted him to notice it.

Then, something in the air _changed_.

Jon stopped. He turned around.

And there he was. Sitting in the sand with his knees drawn up, just far enough upshore to avoid the break of the waves over the beach. He didn’t look at Jon, his unreadable gaze focused on the false distance. But there was something about him—around him—that made Jon think he was far more aware than he’d been the first go around.

Jon wasn’t certain if he’d found Martin or if Martin had found him. If Martin had known, all along. He didn’t think he would be angry if that were the case. No, he—he was starting to get it.

Nothing about this was easy. But really, it shouldn’t be.

He walked over and sat down in the cold sand. _“Martin.”_

Martin’s hand immediately found his, and the warmth of it was like an anchor, the one certainty in this unknowable place. Jon took an unsteady breath and squeezed, and felt his throat constrict painfully when he felt Martin squeeze back.

“Sorry, Jon,” he said, a little wry, a little rueful. “I think I’ll always be at least a bit lost.”

“No, don’t—don’t be sorry. I mean, I think many people probably are, at the end of the day.” _He_ was. It seemed he’d been nothing but lost since this all began, but sometimes he felt it’d been going on longer than that. Since he was eight, perhaps. The Web, the book. Though it didn’t really matter now. He was in it, and so was Martin, and muddling was the best they could do.

Perhaps more than any other fear, loneliness was everywhere and in everything in some way, dealing in shadows of doubt and sharp slivers of existential awareness. It wasn’t just isolation—it was in the knowledge of a distance. And maybe, sometimes, it was also the ease of that distance. Perhaps Martin had been right, before. Maybe everyone really was alone. At least in the ways that mattered most.

But then it also had to mean something to seek another person out, even if it mostly felt like holding a guttering candle to the dark. Difficult, but not meaningless.

“And if you keep coming back, then so will I,” Jon said. Martin had to know already, but it felt better to say it. “Every time.”

Martin seemed taken aback. “Jon, I—you don’t—” His expression grew pained. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“There are many things neither of us should have to do, but this one isn’t about ‘should’,” Jon said softly. “I _want_ to find you. Always. Here, or town, or—or lost in the hills following those cows. So that either of us is only ever a little bit lost.”

Martin stared at him, his mouth working to form words that never made it out. Then he bit his lip and looked down, and sidled closer until they were pressed side by side. Jon felt him relax almost instantly.

“Would you tell me about it?” he asked, trying to be careful. “I’m—I want to understand.”

“As a statement?” Martin teased wanly, rubbing his thumb over the pockmarked skin of Jon’s knuckles.

“If that would help.”

There was a beat as Martin gave it thought. But he shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing you don’t already know. I think I just...felt tired. And maybe this place picked up on that.”

“Tired?”

“Yeah. These last several months and all. It’s been...difficult. Even now, we’re not really out of it. We’re just hiding. Waiting.” Martin shifted a little against him, trying to get more comfortable. “I was right, you know. _This_ _is_ me. Very much. It’s not that being here isn’t scary, it’s just—less. Everything is less. And that helps.”

“Martin—”

“I know I shouldn’t rely on it,” Martin said, frustrated, bitter. “And I’m not. I won’t. But I’m connected and—you know, I didn’t realize it’d pulled me in until I was sitting here, I mean, what’s _wrong_ with—”

Jon tucked his head pointedly into the crook of Martin’s neck. As he’d hoped, Martin spluttered to a stop and went absolutely still.

“I sort of like it here, too. If only it wasn’t a sinister pocket dimension of slow, foggy death.”

It took a moment for Martin to relax again. “Mm. Yeah.”

“Would you settle for Daisy’s front garden?” Jon hedged, smiling when he heard Martin snort. “I know it’s a bit lacking in, er, garden, but it’s quiet. If you need time for yourself.”

“And it’s close.” Martin reached for his other hand.

A bonus. “Yes. And it’s close.”

“And if I end up here again, you’ll drag me back.”

“Yes. You make the only decent cup of tea.”

Martin laughed, and Jon felt his heart simultaneously lighten and stutter. “Glad to have my uses.”

“You also make an extraordinarily comfortable pillow. Very good on these elderly archivist’s bones.”

“Is that so,” Martin said, leaning his head against Jon’s. “Well, you’re welcome to me anytime.”

They sat there for some time, hands held against the cold. It was, unfortunately, a beautiful beach. Jon wondered if it would be so bad to die here—which was probably the whole point, come to think of it.

But it was a small curiosity, and he would make sure it stayed small.

Eventually, the waves reached them, lapping against their shoes as if tentatively touching. Jon noticed they weren’t wet and this, somehow, unsettled him more than anything else so far. Not wanting to wait for the next wave, he stood, and felt unimaginably relieved when Martin followed.

“You’ve been looking for me for a long time,” Martin said, sounding surprised as he squinted at Jon.

“Well, I suppose you were very lost.” Then he smiled, brief. “Or maybe you were hiding?”

“Maybe both. I don’t know.” Martin tried to rub the warmth back into Jon’s hands. “But I’ll make it up to you.”

Jon laughed. God, if anyone had to do any making up, it wasn’t Martin. “I don’t think there’s enough tea in the world for that.”

“I found some magnificent cows?”

“Oh? That’s a start. I’d like to see them.”

Jon started leading them back up the incline, but he felt Martin’s hand on his cheek, coaxing him to slow. And when he turned, Martin kissed him. His lips were dry and cold and gentle. Jon fell into it with a quiet shudder, feeling far too much, as though the last few weeks were finally catching up to him. As though he were letting them. There was relief, and terror that this could be taken away at any moment, but—there was also just _this_ moment. Warmth, and his hand in Martin’s hair, and the muted sound of the eternal sea.

“I’ll get us home,” Martin said against his lips, and pulled back with a faint smile.

Jon blinked, still dazed. “Wha—are you sure? I can—”

“You’re tired. Have been tired. We’re running lean on statements.” He shrugged. “Besides, you shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

“...you’re just afraid we’ll end up in the middle of nowhere.”

He took Jon’s hand and they started away from the shore. “You brought us into a creepy alley almost a mile away from the Institute. Must admit, not really home.”

“At least it was still London.”

“Really?” Martin laughed. “That’s what you’re going for here?”

“And I suppose you can do better?” Jon muttered, but he could feel the cloying mist falling away behind them as they drew further from the beach, and the density of the place gradually began to lessen. If he tried, he was sure he could have _seen_ the change too, but for once this was a path he was fine without knowing.

This, at least, was easy.

Martin turned back to him and smiled. It was mischievous, and it felt to Jon like the sun.

“Don’t worry. I know the way.”

-


End file.
